


Lalonde's Inferno

by urbanAnchorite (t_ZM)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crossdressing, Future Fic, Genderplay, Other, Pre-Threesome, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_ZM/pseuds/urbanAnchorite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good girls go to heaven, but the bad girls dress up Mr. Ampora on Saturday nights. In which Rose knows she must be disturbed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lalonde's Inferno

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill-stimulator for the kinkmeme; I de-anon to say hand over heart, this was alas my own request. All the props I can hand out to the other amazing fillers and supporters on that thread, who were all brilliant and very accepting of the horrible things only I ask for.
> 
> So all I can say bravely is, err, happy March.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

TG: alright ill ask the who shot jfk question what the fuck is it you all do in there on saturday nights   


  


* * *

As the pad of Kanaya’s thumb carefully wiped over Eridan’s eyelid -- smudging the purple in like a bruise, blue to violet, violet to grey -- the room seemed to sink in on itself. When she carefully smoothed out his eyebrows and said, “You have very beautiful cheekbones,” it absorbed temperature from the rest of the facility and settled it over them instead like a portable furnace. When she scraped away the last smear of Ferrari red from the side of his mouth, tilting his unprotesting chin up to survey her handiwork, Rose Lalonde could have bitten through a door.

The voice of her shame was narrated by a mental Dave Strider, which was unfortunate: _unique way to get your sick on,_ it said. _awesome subject for a ladyboner. you go, girl. i am so fucking supportive of this fetish i am gonna give it its own float in a pride parade. you are a kink genius for seventeen miss lalonde._

 _I banish you from my thoughts, prodigal brother,_ she thought faintly --

 _sorry honey i am just your imaginary peanut gallery i am not really here commenting on what you need to satisfy your godawful woman urges_

\-- and she was drawn back to the tableau in front of her. “Too fuckin bright, Kan,” the subject was saying, to which she found her mouth in reply: “That’s undeniably rich coming from somebody for whom one ultramarine microskirt was not enough.”

“Rose,” said Kanaya, “the mascara, if you please.”

Eridan Ampora sat in front of the mirror in a bra and canary-coloured Daisy Dukes. The bra was a disturbingly virginal white, stuffed with tissue paper; underneath it his chest was thin and grey, the barest ripple of muscle preventing one from counting every rib. His stomach was a flat, broad expanse with nary a navel to blemish it, though flared just above his hips were two slashes revealing violet-coloured gills: a perfect tutu ruffle of flesh, tucked away neatly above the iliac crest. Somehow her hands retrieved the mascara from Kanaya’s dressing table, unscrewed the cap and passed it along, and he groaned like an impatient child as she touched it to his lashes.

The troll’s long-boned, lean-muscled swimmer’s legs were encased in knee-high stockings and round-toed high heels in shiny patent leather. If she let her gaze travel up, above those slim white straps his shoulders had a curiously vulnerable air, and Kanaya kept letting her long manicured hands alight on them like restless birds as she worked. His expression as she did it was unabashedly similar to that seen on the face of every pageant beauty just announced Miss America. Rose Lalonde had the sweats worthy of Equius. Rose Lalonde had gone to Hell once already, and no Furthest Ring was penitence enough for her sins.

“This is itchin like all shit, Kan.”

“Pain is the price one pays for beauty,” she said, “and also the price one pays for fiddling, which is why I am mostly unsympathetic to your plight.”

God damn it.

As most rituals did, it had a long, convoluted and unlikely beginning, scuffed by time to twist its meaning. If one asked outright, _Ms. Lalonde, how is it that every Saturday night you find yourself in Ms. Maryam’s rooms, wearing frothy skirts and doing your nails?_ she would be hard-pressed to answer. If one also asked outright, _Ms. Lalonde, why is it that Mr. Ampora does the exact same thing?_ she would be at more of a loss.

And yet it was the crux of their truce. Every Saturday, though the trolls disdained naming days, she would be behind a locked door watching Kanaya’s quick fingers sew up a seam. Kanaya loved clothes as she imagined people loved God: with quiet, ferocious, wholehearted intensity, admittedly the same intensity that caused Rose’s stomach to make macramé of itself since they had met. This was partly the reason that she let herself be stuffed into bodices and puffed sleeves, crisp pantsuits and enough lace to sink a Victorian woman into a swoon. She would make sarcastic picks and to pay her back, Kanaya would let her make them; then she would sit there dressed in pastel ruffles looking like the deranged offspring of a doily and an easter egg, bitterly painting her nails to match. A thing apart was Eridan.

He made his own choices. He would bang into the room and disdainfully skin off his clothing, leaving a trail of pashmina and sweater as though it were the most normal thing in the world to wrestle off one’s shirt by way of saying _hello_. All Rose would see was a swatch of narrow grey belly as he rolled off his shirt, skinny gilled hips and those risibly checked trousers, and then he’d disappear into the wardrobe. (“Fold your things,” Kanaya would say, peacefully basting a hem. “Whatever,” he’d say. Every _time_.)

He made his own choices, and he had no taste. He liked tube-tops and tank-tops, alarming shades of neon exhumed straight from the eighties; cargo boots and thigh-high stockings. It was as though blouses and sundresses were the salad and bread roll of the fashion world, and he had chosen to go straight to the come-hither dessert cart of the miniskirt. Eridan would stand in front of the mirror and roll up his skirt, a study of angles and purple-streaked hair, and announce: “This makes my ass look wide.”

Rose would never quite get used to his accent: _wwide._ “If I may illuminate,” she’d drawl, “your behind is a mesa. It’s a flat, narrow prairie. It is a one-lane road where your hips terminate in your thighs without the slightest breath of transition. It is a -- “

“That material will do that to anyone,” said Kanaya.

“Clam up, Ros,” he said, and shimmered the skirt a little bit more down his ass-lack. Once more she wondered at the way Kanaya, vying hard for the title of Snarkiest Broad, would treat him when he was wearing high heels. “You just wish you could be wearin this thing.”

As spaces went, it was bizarre. Kanaya would sit there sequestered with the sewing-machine. A lamp would be shining down on her dark hair, her arched and fine-boned face, and she would continue to alter everything she had ever found in Mrs. Lalonde’s endless wardrobe. A while had gone by, since. It had been a long while. The past was sensibly packed away. Rose now congratulated herself for the newly-found ability to not think about her mother for ten minutes at a time.

But there was Kanaya. Kanaya with her measuring tape, pressed very gently against the inside of her wrist as though too much pressure would make Rose crumble, as though she were light and frangible as honeycomb. When they looked at each other sometimes the world would soften around the edges, get breathless and still and lose focus on some things but sharpen on others. The slope of her shoulder made Rose incoherent in a thousand ways. The cradle of her skull that hid all her thoughts -- her steadfast, infuriating, restrained and incisive self, her whims and wishes, her chill and her warmth -- and the much less intellectual, as gone were the days when she had thought their passion was one of shared mental acuity. The swell of her breast, the tight curve of her stomach up into her small, neat waist. Sometimes the pucker of her nipples through her clothing -- as vestigial as they were on human men, and they made all moisture evaporate from her mouth -- and it drained her until no clever thought was left but _Kanaya, Kanaya, Kanaya._ If she slipped on a button-up shirt and Kanaya deigned to knot her tie Rose could have died then and there. She had loved her silently for a very long time, loved her more than she could bear, loved her with every bitter or tender cell in her body. Sometimes that silence was untenably loud.

So help her God, then there was Eridan.

He was venal and self-absorbed, still petty, still grasping, pathetic and lacking in empathy, and despite all that had gone down had never been left quieter or more thoughtful than before. In all summaries he was, to wit, a douche. He was pricklier and lonelier and more incorrigible than anyone she had ever known. Somehow on Saturdays it was different; when he sat on a chair in front of her with his stockinged legs tucked up underneath him and encased in fishnet there was a seachange (hah), one she could only attribute to his regularly looking like Julia Roberts in the early scenes of Pretty Woman. When he sank down to his knees so that a seated Kanaya could tend to his hair, sliding a barrette into the violet-streaked fringe and away from a crooked horn, Rose wanted to explode from sheer barometric pressure and scream: _what have you both done to me? What have you **done?**_

Often, somehow, they would end up all sitting together, legs stuck out to display thirty toes splayed with cotton buds as the polish dried. Two pink ankles, four grey. Three coats of robin’s-egg blue. One set of feet was much larger than the other two, although Eridan’s unbelievable manjaw did belie a very graceful instep.

“Sometimes I really wonder,” said Rose, “what I am doing with my life.”

“You think _you_ fuckin wonder.”

“I never get tired of listening to you both ceaselessly and rhetorically wonder what you are doing here,” said Kanaya. “I never get the urge to remind either of you that you keep returning like human clockwork. I have never rolled my eyes, not even a little.”

“An admirable attempt,” Rose offered, “but unsubtle. A light hand is the soul of sarcasm.”

“It’s like you two don’t even bother makin sense any more, it’s all just _bluh bluh bluh, words words words,_ ” came the complaint. “This battle’s only fun when somebody wins, ladies. Needs a tactician. Needs my mastery a martial strategy. Go hard, because the only loser of this shitty ironic attrition thing is me.”

“My life revolves around your comfort,” said Rose.

“I also constantly expend mental resources wanting to be assured of your approval,” said Kanaya.

“Both of you go to glubbin hell.”

And they’d be left to lie next to each other, shoulder very barely touching shoulder grazing shoulder, and chastely listen to each other’s breathing. Every second of that time was a minute and every minute an hour, and every hour for Rose a Sisyphean torment.

When the time came to part on Saturdays, when an Eridan cleaned-up and bescarfed swaggered out with a wave and a wink to show how very much he did not care and she had left Kanaya with a (depressingly overt, _damn you, Lalonde_ ) kiss to her hand, she would walk back to her room in a daze and shove her hand down her pants the moment that lock clicked shut. There would be no finesse, just the desperation to remove the burn between her legs.

Her fingers would slip -- by this point she was always slicker than a Slip’n’Slide covered in industrial-strength lubricant -- dip into herself, easily parting for two fingers without preamble, then scrubbing them down hard on the swollen nub of her clitoris. Her brain supplied the rest. Eridan tilting back his head, sharp features a little flushed, letting Kanaya’s hands click down a choker over his throat. Eridan with one leg balanced on top of a chair, fussily adjusting the seams of his stockings -- they had _killed each other_ , for God’s sake, across Kanaya’s abdomen rippled a round ring of scar tissue never to be removed -- Kanaya perching a hat on her dark, shining head, winding a glossy black kiss curl around one finger, holding out an arm for Eridan to slide on the sleeve of her coat --

Another finger, a grunt slipping from between her lips as she arched back against her door. Were it possible to spontaneously combust, she would be a greasy spot and some smoke on the tiles. Kanaya resting one anklebooted foot on the sofa, Eridan in pigtails kissing a lipstick-greased pink trail up her calf as she reached out to pull idly on his hair; Kanaya’s fingers at the back of Rose’s dress, slowly undoing every button from her shoulderblades to the small of her back. Her hands would be a little chill on her feverish human skin due to those arcane circulation mechanisms of a rainbow-drinker’s blood. Rose would never flinch. Eridan coolly lifting up one of his horrifyingly brief skirts, as haughty as a queen and simultaneously blushing orchid --

Rose’s fingers stabbed inside herself to frantically locate the rough spot that made her want to whine like an animal, again and again then out and again. Eridan with his glasses in disarray, mouthing over the front of Kanaya’s panties and then having his head turned to press against oh God the front of Rose’s own, tonguing wet spots in the cotton as his dress lay in a louche fuschia puddle on the floor. Kanaya watching them licking a mouth wet and black with lipgloss, Eridan’s sharp teeth scraping Rose’s thigh and her flicking at one lightning-crooked horn in warning.

 _Heel, Ampora,_ her mind’s-eye said with her mouth -- Kanaya in an unbuttoned man’s shirt and underwear, eyes huge and yellow and slumbrous, leaning over to show the fabric-covered curve of the world’s most unspeakably beautiful ass as she palmed Eridan’s cock through his clothes, smiling at Rose, Rose burning, burning, burning, a conflagration -- to him: _do you know what I see when I look at you?_ Eridan already begging to be fucked like the little slut he is, Kan, Kan, Ros, please. _A lost little grub of a girl._

And the slender arms of the troll girl Rose loves bending the make-up-smeared, much-taller, _en deshabille_ form of the troll boy Rose -- oh, God -- over the couch, rings clutched in dove-white knuckles, those seadweller gills undulating a little, Kanaya in just boots and working her dainty underwear off over them with one hand. And the insides of her thighs, wet and stained and slippery --

Rose Lalonde came like the Fourth of July, sweat pooling at the backs of her knees and blonde fringe stuck wetly to her forehead. The walls were thick enough to disguise her panting, or so she assumed: that, or a neighbouring Sollux was incredibly discreet with her secrets.

And then, nerve endings screaming, she started all over again. When one had constructed one’s own hell, there was no point in not enjoying the flames.

* * *

  
TT: Discuss fashion.   
TG: boring

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] stopped pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--


End file.
